


Old Wounds

by vials



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 14:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11487834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vials/pseuds/vials
Summary: It seems as though he's only just got back on the field when he ends up injured, and now Tiago has even more to worry about. Mainly, if he's going to end up on his own again.





	Old Wounds

Tiago was in pain. Unsurprising, considering he had a bullet lodged in one shoulder and had had to hurl himself over a third floor balcony to avoid the second shot actually hitting its target. Usually such heights weren’t a problem for him but he had been thrown off balance by the shot and the pain had made for an effective distraction; he had hit the ground hard, and as he stumbled through alleys and side streets he was certain he could feel things twisting in his body that shouldn’t be moving in such ways.

It was a worrying situation to be in, but Tiago’s main concern was the fact that this surely meant another several months off of field duty, while he waited for his body to drag its heels through another healing process. This was only his fourth job since he had finally recovered from the ordeal in China, and now he was going to have to sit in bed and do it all over again. He would wonder why he had bothered to come back in the first place, if he didn’t wonder that every day, and over increasingly trivial things. Olivia – though she was M now, he reminded himself – would no doubt take him about as seriously as she always did when he made such threats, which was to say, not at all.

He should probably radio back, get some kind of medevac going on, but there was likely no time for it and if he was going to have to curl up and wait for death he would rather do it out of enemy territory – or as far out as he could possibly get. He had been told to report back to the safehouse where operations were currently set up and he had been given very strict orders on his departure to obey the brief this time, so he would, to the very last line. The adrenaline was wearing off and he could feel the tell-tale stab of broken bones: his shoulder was in agony even with his arm curled up to his chest, and the tips of his fingers were tingling. The arm itself was a dead weight and Tiago had to use his good arm to hold it against himself to stop it simply dangling there. His left knee throbbed with every step and his left ankle was by now so swollen that he was certain he wouldn’t be able to get his shoe off. The journey, which ordinarily would have taken forty minutes, took him close to two hours. It couldn’t be helped. He had to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

When he did arrive at the house – a secluded thing set in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by orchards and vineyards for miles around – he found it in a state of high activity. He could immediately tell from the kinds of things being loaded into the cars that they were rolling out, and he felt his gut twist slightly with anxiety. Had they been discovered? Betrayed, even? Whatever had happened it was going to be a royal mess, and in his state Tiago knew he wouldn’t exactly be of much use. Still, the only way he could hope to get out of the country was with the help of his own people. Staying in a hospital right now would be far too dangerous, and like hell he was going to be getting on a plane alone, while covered in this much blood and looking as pale as a corpse. 

“ _There_ you are.”

The voice was such a shock that for a moment Tiago was convinced he was hallucinating. He whirled around a little too quickly for his body to keep up with and immediately the ground pitched under him; he had to lean against the wall of the hallway he had only just stepped into, leaving a conspicuous smear of red on the while wall.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, which was both rude and out of line but the only thing he could think of. He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that M was standing six feet in front of him, tiny and furious, her arms folded across her chest.

“That isn’t important,” she said dismissively, before her eyes gave him a once-over and her brow furrowed slightly. “What happened to you? Was your cover blown?”

“I have no idea, to be honest,” Tiago replied. He tried to straighten up but dark spots scattered his vision; defeated, he leaned back against the wall again. “Probably. I was taking a look around like I said I was going to do and the bastard came back early. Knew I was in there, too. Guess someone was watching from somewhere across the street. Took a shot at me but thankfully he can’t shoot for shit. I took a tumble over the balcony for my trouble.”

“For god’s sake,” M said, her eyes now travelling down to his leg. They lingered on his ankle for a moment and Tiago followed her gaze: the leg of his trousers on that side was soaked with blood. Tiago felt queasy, but knew from experience that it wasn’t the sight of the blood so much as the effects of so much of it now being outside of his body. “How injured are you?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, lamely. “The bullet is lodged in my shoulder and my arm is useless, but it didn’t get anything vital. I’ve done something to my knee and I guess my ankle is broken, after all. Maybe a couple of ribs, too. I’ve had worse.”

“This is inconvenient,” M said, before turning and disappearing down a side hallway and into a room somewhere about halfway down it. Tiago paused for a moment and, finding no better options, limped after her.

By the time he actually made it down the hall, his hair now sticking to his forehead with sweat, M was in an animated discussion with Peter, the man who had been in charge of the whole thing up until whenever M had arrived and who looked just as stressed as Tiago would have expected from a man in his position.

“We can hardly wait for that,” M was saying. “They’ll probably be on us any bloody moment and that’s even without the possibility of Rodrigues being followed. Have you got anything else?”

“We can take him with us and hope we can get him through the airport,” Peter said, shrugging helplessly. “Or we can just give him some cash and hope he finds his own way out.”

“It might have to bloody come to that.”

Tiago had had just about enough. He was too warm, he was in pain, he felt as though he were going to throw up at any moment. Something in the flippant way that M delivered the words finally snapped his patience, and when he spoke it was with as much venom as he could muster.

“Wouldn’t be the first time, would it, mum?” he asked, hoping that she would at least have the decency to look ashamed when she turned around and spotted him. Of course he knew he would be wishing too much; her steely gaze didn’t fracture even slightly as she saw him.

“If you can show me a better idea I’m all ears,” she said. “But right now we’re all in danger of ending up in a far worse state than you. I’m sure you could manage it. It wouldn’t be the first time for you, either.”

Tiago didn’t know if she was referring to his escape from the Chinese or if it was perhaps a nod to the myriad other times he had found himself stranded and injured and still managed to stumble back to London as though he had suffered nothing more serious than a particularly vigorous lad’s holiday, but he was angry and hurt and decided to assume it was the former, simply for the scandal of it all. 

“Makes me wonder why I bothered,” he muttered, even though he always said that, and of course it had just as much of an effect as usual.

“Don’t start this,” M said, sighing. “I’ll send you back there myself if you express one more bloody desire to go back. Peter, hurry up, would you? We need to be out of here in no more than five minutes.”

“I’m trying,” Peter said. “Everything’s gone crazy. It’s taking longer to get a response.”

“Just leave,” Tiago practically spat out. His eyes were firmly on M as he spoke. “It was easy enough for you the first time.”

M rolled her eyes. “Did anybody ever tell you that you get irritable when you lose blood, Tiago?” she asked, and Tiago tried to ignore the fact that her use of his first name was reassuring. Despite his efforts he felt some of the anger draining from him. She wouldn’t leave him. Not again. She hadn’t even wanted to the first time – it had just been the only way. 

“Low blood sugar,” he said, a weak joke, but he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. 

“Don’t sit down,” she told him, as he slumped down the wall slightly, his injured knee throbbing and the other struggling to support his weight. “If you do you might not be able to drag yourself up again. We need to leave in two minutes.”

“So you’re not leaving me behind, then?” Tiago asked, raising an eyebrow.

“As much as you would love the self-righteousness it would give you, no, I’m not,” M said briskly. “I fear I would never hear the end of it. I’m still hearing about the last time. Peter, did they get back to you? Ask them if they can meet us somewhere on the way.”

“They can,” Peter said. “If we leave now.”

M looked at him then, wearing the look that told Tiago he had been a fool to distrust her for even an instant, and when she moved over to the door and beckoned for him to follow her he found he suddenly had the strength to push himself off the wall and trail closely behind.


End file.
